


The Poppy Fields of Brooklyn

by TellMeNoAgain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, M/M, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Steve Sticks Around, post-Endgame AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25878760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Prompt fic from WriterBuddies Discord Server, written for TedraKitty's upcoming birthday!  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LOVELY!~~~Every day since the Return, Steve and Bucky walk to American Legion Post 116.Well, no.  Steve walks.  Bucky just shadows him.Everyone everywhere is figuring out how to live again, but Bucky's still just a shadow.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	The Poppy Fields of Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TedraKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TedraKitty/gifts).



> First off, to all my betas, jf4m, and mindwiped, DAMMIT I LOVE YOU.
> 
> All further mistakes are mine.
> 
> To my cheerreader, Livvibee, BLESS YOU. 
> 
> To the WriterBuddies Discord Server, y'all, these weekly prompts are killing me, I love them so much, but you know what brings me back to life? The way you support each other every step of the way! If anyone's looking for a safe space to get encouraged, try WriterBuddies: https://discord.gg/wXxPh3Y
> 
> Prompt available at the end.
> 
> Trigger Warning for use of a pejorative term for gay people. It is not said by the character with any intent to harm.

Bucky follows Steve like a shadow through the world, where everything is louder and brighter than it used to be, where he flinches from memories that spring up unexpectedly- did men at one point wear gold chains around their necks in tier after tier? And why would he remember that so vividly, but not be able to remember the sound of his ma calling him home for dinner, like Steve does? 

Well, no.

Not quite a shadow.

Because at some point, a shadow touches skin.

And they don’t touch. Steve tried, at first, to give him hugs, to clap him on the shoulder, to shake his hand, but he knows Bucky too well, even after all of these years, and Bucky’s discomfort put a stop to the gestures.

So they don’t touch, Steve’s new not-a-shadow and Steve. 

But he never complains about it. And neither does Steve. It’s just one more thing in the long list of things they have to fix to rebuild James Buchanan Barnes. And it’s not at the top.

Bucky watches Steve walk through the aisles of the bookshop and resigns himself to an hour or more of Steve digging through the art section, taking book after book off of the shelves and staring, deciding which ones to take home based on how pompous the author is, how brilliant the photographs. How much he wants that sketch or painting or drawing on page 72 or 16.

Everyone everywhere is figuring out how to live again, Bucky notes, watching two patrons in the poetry section share a book, arguing over which love poem to use. 

Even Steve.

Steve, who doesn’t want to be a soldier any more, and there’s a shock that shakes Bucky to his boots. Steve Rogers doesn’t want to be a soldier, call the papers. 

He doesn’t know this Steve, sometimes, who _doesn’t want to be a soldier_.

His Steve always wanted to be a soldier. It was- it was _essential_ to Steve Rogers, one of the constants that Bucky could set his soul by. Bucky Barnes was a grade A hellion and a helluva kisser, and little Stevie Rogers wanted to be a real soldier more than anything.

But this Steve, who he follows like not-a-shadow, doesn’t. 

Lots changed after the Snap, apparently. Waking up not-dead in a world that had fallen apart and rebuilt itself in his absence felt... very familiar. Exhausting to start all over again, but… familiar.

A beep-blat noise from Steve’s phone shakes him out of his concentration on the Jackson Pollack coffee table edition in his hands. “Oh, uh, time to go,” he says, standing.

The guy behind the counter tries to say _no charge_ , but Steve wins. At least _that_ hasn’t changed. That ever changes, and Bucky’s gone, lost in a world that doesn’t have _any_ touchstone for him, any anchors. Bucky gives the guy a tight smile when he realizes the guy is looking at him nervously. _Nothing here to see, just Steve Roger’s shadow_ , he thinks at the guy, and it works, it always works, the guy relaxes and returns to chatting with Steve, telling Steve he _supports_ him going back to college. Steve thanks him- which is ridiculous, the guy’s support is worth one of them give-a-penny, take-a-pennies they got by every cash register now- and they finally walk out.

They walk- Steve always walks, with Bucky as his shadow, like he’s walking a dog or trying to wear Bucky out so Bucky will _sleep_ \- to the front of the old building and climb the steps, Steve first, and then Bucky.

He has no idea why he drags his feet. They do this every day, right on time, 3:00 PM. Steve schedules the classes he takes around it, even.

“Hey, gang,” laughs Steve, as everyone calls out, “Steve!” with happy voices. A few people shout, “Barnes!” and Bucky nods at them, lips twitching in a stiff smile.

“Get over here, get twisting,” says the querulous voice of the oldest man in the room, glaring at Bucky. Duke always glares at Bucky, and frankly? Bucky loves him for it.

Bucky slides past Steve, who is already caught by one of the people wearing American Legion Post 116 t-shirts. They’re the only two white men in the whole building again today, Bucky notes. He slides into the seat next to Duke, who growls at him, “Thought you’d be late.”

“For this?” asks Bucky, grimacing, “Never. Someone’s gotta twist these posies.”

“Poppies,” corrects Duke in a gruff growl. “Get to work.”

Bucky’s lip twitches. 

Steve checks in after an hour, but Duke shoos him away. “Get outta here, go lift something heavy,” he grunts. Steve smiles at him and extends the smile to Bucky.   
  
Bucky smiles back wryly, waving three tissue paper poppy flowers at him before setting them in the small box beside him. Steve shakes his head as he walks away, no doubt already on some errand or another. He’s very helpful, and the people at the Legion? Bucky’s learned they need a lot of help.

“What’s’a count,” grunts Duke.

“97,” Bucky tells him, which is probably pretty close. He might have lost track of one or two.

“Three more, then this’n’s done,” says Duke with deep disapproval. “Yer slowin’ down.”

“Fingers hurt,” Bucky tells him, which is mostly a lie. He watches Duke’s careful, trembling fingers and thinks, _not all a lie_. Someone’s fingers hurt, anyway. 

He’s twenty years older than Duke, to the day. They were both born March 10th, a fact that makes Duke as angry as it makes Bucky, which they’d learned that first spring, having to split the cake Steve bought for them. But it makes them angry for different reasons, and at least the anger is- _comfortable_ , Bucky decides.  
  
Duke’s mad that Bucky’s older than him and his fingers still work, mad that Bucky can still keep track and count up to 100, even if it takes an hour and there’s long pauses and conversation in between the numbers. He’s mad that Bucky gets into and out of chairs all by himself, that the young female volunteers who sometimes flit about the place give Bucky second looks that aren’t full of syrupy sympathy. He’s got a lot of mad for Bucky, and that’s comfortable, too. He outranks Bucky, and Bucky’s used to his superiors being frustrated with him.

And _Bucky’s_ mad that Duke gets to be done, or is near enough to being done that he can call it at any time, throw in the towel and say, _I did it_. Duke’s whole life is stretched behind him, now, all 83 years of it. He can look back and tell stories, of times Bucky never really remembers except in flashes: poodle skirts and a girl’s scream, angry protestors and a man who needed to die, a kid on his clunky nintendo game boy who should not see what’s about to happen next. 

Bucky can’t tell stories about the past century that’s flown by him. He barely remembers any of it, and only more than those quick, shocking flashes in the nightmares that wake him up in a cold sweat. 

He’s old enough to be Duke’s father- something someone pointed out over their joint birthday cake that had made them both sneer and then snap their next bite a little more viciously than necessary. Yeah, they both hate that, too. 

Bucky twists more poppies and Duke grumbles, “You done yet?”

“Yeah,” sighs Bucky. “Yeah, Duke, I’m done, I think.”

“Well, count ‘em again, I think yer off,” orders Duke, which isn’t unusual.

Bucky dumps the box out and begins to count, under Duke’s rheumy gaze.

“PT,” mutters Duke, somewhere in the 60s. “Got me doing PT poppies and you know what it reminds me of?”

Bucky keeps counting, but glances up at Duke, wary. “What?” he asks.

“Rolling cigarettes, you remember that? Smell of a good cigarette, rollin’ ‘em for my dad, tobacco probably pulled up outta the ground by some little black boy, you know it, shipped by one, too, and sold by ‘em on the street corners,” muses Duke, his eyes looking down, chin tucked, lips trembling as he talks. “Daddy liked the way I twisted ‘em better than Royce, you know that?”

“I didn’t,” mutters Bucky. 

“I got ‘em tighter, burned better that way, packed tight like that. Usedta have such fingers,” bemoans Duke, quietly, his eyes still staring back into the past.

“104,” Bucky announces after a short pause, pulling four poppies back out and dropping them in a new box. “You were right.”

Duke startles and grunts angrily, “‘Course I was right. I _know_ , Barnes. Little shit like you, you don’t _know_.”

“Hey, now, grandpa,” says one of the men at the next table, sounding nervous. Must be new, then, not used to having national hero and vintage treasure Bucky Barnes sit around the table and take Duke’s shit yet. Everyone else has heard it a million times. They probably think it’s cute or something.

Bucky shakes his head and leans forward, hunching. No, he deserves this bawling out, for knocking Duke back into this century and his ruined body, and if there’s one thing Bucky Barnes always takes, it’s what’s coming to him.

“Little shit,” repeats Duke angrily.

“Yes, sir,” sighs Bucky.

“Get to work,” Duke snaps.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky agrees, reaching for another piece of red tissue to roll.

“I remember cigarettes,” he tells Duke quietly, when he’s done enough poppies that no one else is paying attention to them anymore. “I remember rolling ‘em.”

“Who the hell cares,” snaps Duke, fingers trembling as he twists a poppy and tosses it shakily into the new box.

“No one,” agrees Bucky, nodding because that’s fair and true.

Duke grunts. His lips tremble though, for a few minutes more.

~~~

It’s 4:45 and Duke’s grand-daughter comes to get him, which is always a production Bucky loves to watch. She’s so careful with him, like _he’s_ a national treasure. Bucky likes to imagine it’s not all an act, either, the respectful way she approaches her grandfather, how kind her eyes look as she eyes him up and down, checking to be sure he’s in the same condition as when she dropped him off. She brings him by every day, around 3:00, gets him set up and makes sure there’s someone to keep an eye on him. She tucks pillows into his wheelchair and snacks in a bag on the back, leaves him with a cup of decaf made just the way he likes it. And when she comes to pick him up, his face lights up like it’s Christmas morning.   
  
“This’s my Portia, you know that, Barnes?” he asks, like he does every day. “Worth ten times any Porsche on the market, you know what?”

“I believe it,” Bucky grunts, not looking at her.

“Yeah, you keep your filthy hands to yourself, boy, you’ll never touch anything so fine,” Duke tells him, making his grand-daughter splutter, but Bucky smiles tightly. 

“Oh, I know it,” Bucky tells Duke, and they glower at each other companionably. “How’s the kids, ma’am?” he asks politely.

“Got report cards today,” she tells him, rolling her eyes at her grandfather and shaking her head, fondly. “They want to show Steve, of course. Maybe bring them by Friday, won’t that be a treat, Grand’a?”

Of course. Because if your great-grandad is friends with Captain America, of course you’d use it to get an attaboy and a selfie you can take to school with you. Bucky snorts. 

“That piece of choir boy,” moans Duke. “Don’t see what the fuss is. Never catch him with his hands dirty.”

“Now that’s not true,” chides his granddaughter gently, fussing with Duke’s cup, washing it out in the sink and hanging it from his honorary peg for the next day. Bucky does it on the days she forgets, and he wishes she would just forget every day. She looks tired, and he’s not quite sure what she does for a living that’s put all the gray in her hair, but maybe that’s just what happens, living life here. Bucky doesn’t know much about gray hair. She comes back to Duke and chides him gently, “He works plenty in the garden.”

“Oh the _garden_ ,” mocks Duke.

“Yes, the garden,” says a familiar voice from the doorway, laughing. Bucky’s head and heart lifts, because it must be later than 4:45 if _he’s_ here. “You got something against gardens, old man? Or just against national icons? Something I should tell them to look into, at work?”

Duke glares up at Sam and says, “You calling me a traitor, son?”

“I most certainly am, that’s _Captain America_ you’re cussing out under your breath,” laughs Sam.

“Not anymore,” snaps Duke. “Gave it all up- shield and shitwork and all- to go draw posies.”

“ _Poppies_ ,” corrects Bucky under his breath, earning himself a glare and a gnarled finger pointing in his direction. 

“You can shut it, cake stealer,” snarls Duke, before glaring up at Sam. “And you can shut it, too, don’t you have better work to do, _Captain_ America?”

“You still mad I got a promotion when I picked up the shield?” laughs Sam, shaking his head.

“Promoted, bullshit,” Duke tells him bluntly. “Ain’t _promoted_ when it’s just for a- a- brand promotion, just a PR gimmick. Ain’t _earned_.”

Sam smiles at him, while Bucky ducks his head and Portia flutters around, trying to calm her grandfather down and smooth everything over.

Duke ignores her, he always does when he’s ripping Sam a new one. “You ain’t even spent your duty hours down here yet this week,” he informs Sam hotly, nodding at the volunteer hours board. “How we gonna sell poppies on M’morial Day if your finger’s ain’t helping to twist.”

“Sorry, sir,” says Sam seriously. “But I do always get them in, don’t I, sir?”

Duke eyes him up, and Bucky bites his lip, because Sam was a private once, and he learned how to look outrageously innocent, same’s any grunt. He looks so innocent he should be on a church tapestry, right now, with the sweetness actually glowing out of him.

“Yeah, save your excuses and your bellyachin’,” orders Duke, tapping on the table once before leaning way back- his granddaughter takes a step forward, concerned- to tap the poster on the wall behind him. “You can tell it to them that lay row on row.”

“What, in Flander’s Fields?” asks Sam, eyebrows flying. “Sir, flying all the way to France is gonna put you out of even more poppies twisted by _my_ fingers than makin’ me show up extra tomorrow.”

“ _Belgium_ , and don’t you forget it,” bellows Duke, as heads turn throughout the room, now. 

“Yes, sir,” sighs Sam. “Belgium.”

“Extra hundred,” sniffs Duke.

“Yes, sir,” Sam replies crisply, holding himself stiffly, if still casually.

“ _Captain_ America,” grumbles Duke, as his grand-daughter mouths, _So sorry_ at Sam, fussing and pushing him from the room toward the hallway with the elevator. “Gotta earn it!” he shouts back at Sam.

They can hear his grumbling until the ancient elevator doors close on it.

“Can’t decide who he likes less, you or me,” Sam chuckles, dropping into a chair to look at Bucky. They both snicker.

“Probably me, you ever steal his cake?” smirks Bucky.

“Woulda been born on March 10th if I’d’ve thought of it, really tick the old man off, havin’ to split it three ways,” chuckles Sam. He picks up the bright red tissue and spears it. “How many more you gotta do?”

“‘Bout 20,” Bucky tells him.

“And then you’ll count,” Sam prods him.

“Always have to,” agrees Bucky. “He always catches me, knows what boxes I slacked on. Ain’t right.”

There’s a long pause, while Sam twists poppies into being with Bucky, before he says quietly, “He looked good, today.”

“Yeah,” agrees Bucky. “Yelled at me some, could tell he had extra energy. Reminded me of rolling cigarettes for his daddy.”

Sam nods, and then says, “That’s the last one. You count and then we’re going out back, new vet’s’ll want a game, and we gotta run ‘em through drills.”

“Awww,” sighs Bucky, but he dumps the box and begins counting as Sam grabs them both bottled waters and then stands by the table, waiting, only the shifting of his feet betraying his impatience, his need for movement.

Bucky remembers sitting beside the still waters of the lake next to his hut in Wakanda, looking out over that smooth surface day after day, thinking nothing and being nothing but a _human being_ for once. 

Well. That was before the Snap, and then the Return, and then the Battle. That was before… a lot of things.

Steve had still been a soldier, then.

“102,” he mutters.

“Hah,” barks Sam. “C’mon, old man, the new vets are more your speed anyway.”

Yeah, Bucky’s not so sure of that.

The usual crew is already on the freshly-black-topped, newly-painted court. Bucky still has black gunk at the edges of his nails and it’s been weeks. Everyone shouts when they see Sam, and he slings shit back at them as Bucky slides over to Steve, taking up position as Steve’s shadow once again.

“Supers split two teams,” calls one-armed Darriel.

“Nah, norms against supers, one at a time, tag team,” laughs Gab.

There’s a vicious but brief shit-talking battle, which in the end Steve settles by stripping off his shirt and saying, “You think you can take me? Shirts vs. skin.”

The vets all shout as they charge after him onto the court.

Sam wanders over, laughing, and Bucky’s lips twist. They watch Steve take on the whole unruly mob, laughter and shouts and mutters and threats and all. They watch for a while, until there’s sweat showing on temples and starting to soak shirts.  
  
Not any on Steve, though, not yet.

“Saw you panicking there,” Sam says quietly. “No one’d touch you, you know.”

Bucky turns to stare at him, mouth suddenly dry. “What?” he demands.

“You wanted to play a little, do warm ups, instead of just the drills,” Sam tells him slowly, not dropping his gaze. “People would respect your space.”

On the court, Steve janks left and then spins, and the elbow attempting to connect with his nose flies over his head as he ducks and then launches himself up, tossing the ball with a shit-eating grin, a familiar mid-battle glow in his eyes.

“Yeah, looks like that’d be easy, make the game real fun,” mutters Bucky.

“They’d figure it out,” says Sam confidently. 

“No need to,” grunts Bucky. “‘M fine here.” The fingers on his flesh arm flex, once, though.

“Yeah, I can see you waiting for something,” Sam tells him agreeably. Sam’s always agreeable. “Here’s your sign, though,” he adds, and takes off his shirt, too, wading in, calling for Steve’s attention and the ball.

Bucky’s standing alone now, and if there’s one thing his time in Wakanda taught him, it’s that he’s a fucking wreck, sure, but he’s even worse alone.

“What the hell,” breathes Bucky. “What the fuck’s he talking about, my _sign_.”

“Means you’re stupid,” says one of the older vets, from behind him.

Bucky flinches.

“Yeah, real lucky you missed most of the nineties,” sighs the vet. “Fuck, if my knees weren’t cereal, you know, snap crackle and poppin’, I’d be out there trying to make that white boy work for it,” he sighs. He bumps into Bucky’s shoulder and ignores Bucky’s flinch to do it again. “You got the shakes, kid.”

“I’m older’n Duke,” growls Bucky.

“Don’t look like it, sittin’ here wasting your good knees, sulking,” comments the man, bumping Bucky’s shoulder again. “Go play, son.”

“Hey, man,” says Sam, suddenly in front of them. “Back off, Jerry.”

The man puts his hands up and backs away, turning to head into the building.

Adrian shouts, “Deserter!” and Sam throws himself back into the warm-up game.

Bucky doesn’t touch the spot where Jerry had touched him, but it burns, hot and glowing, the skin feeling tight. He glowers until they switch to lay-up drills, and then joins the line, behind Steve, ignoring the way he can still feel the touch, even when they begin wind sprints.

~~~

It’s Friday. Bucky feels a little impatient as Steve looks through the crowded stacks, and shocked at himself for feeling anything but out of place and a little bored. 

He’s right on Steve’s heels up the stairs to the Legion, so close that Steve actually shoots him a look as he opens the door.

Bucky ignores him.

Steve’s mobbed, like always, and carried off, so Bucky heads to Duke’s corner, his heart feeling a little lighter than normal.

“Hey, Bucky,” greets Sam, smiling up at him. “This jerk’s got me doing five boxes today.”

“Can’t be done,” Bucky grunts, sitting, already reaching for the red tissue, green wire stem.

“Can if you focus and stop yapping,” snorts Duke. “Both a’ya idiots.”

Bucky grins at his fingers and gets twisting.

“I see that smile, Sergeant,” warns Duke.

Sam snorts as Bucky scowls instead.

“Better,” concedes Duke. “Still an ugly mug, but at least it ain’t trying to melt butter.”

Sam screws up his face but Bucky snorts. Score one for the Duke.

At some point it turns into a race between Sam and Bucky, with the Duke calling them every name under the sun that rhymes with _idjits_. And that’s the thing about twisting poppies, none of Bucky’s super skills- his strength, his agility, the way he heals from any damage, given time, his reflexes, his eye-hand coordination- none of them give him an advantage, rolling small, cheap, tissue paper poppies. So it’s a _real_ challenge, up against Sam, who taught him how to roll them, under Duke’s disapproving frown. 

In the end, they’re interrupted by Duke’s grand-daughter, come to get him early, and all of the kids, who mob Steve and mob Sam, and approach Bucky with caution. Duke’s in seventh heaven, showing off the fourth generation, telling everyone about who they are and who he thinks they’re gonna be, someday. The younger vets take the kids outside to run off all that energy, and Duke is still talking shit with some of the vets who are only a decade or two younger than he is.

Bucky’s standing by the kitchenette, washing out Duke’s mug, because his grand-daughter is subtly getting them ready to go, when Sam slides in next to him with his stupid glass flask water bottle. “Need water,” he says to Bucky, and when Bucky doesn’t move- he’s _washing_ Duke’s _mug_ \- he shoves in, with his hip, and knocks Bucky a little. Bucky drops the mug, startled, and then watches, horrified, as the handle chips off, suds flying everywhere and the tiniest chips flowing away down the drain.

His hip burns, where Sam bumped him. And his elbow, his shoulder.

“Oh, shit,” mutters Sam.

“You two idjits getting yourselves banned from KP?” growls the Duke.

Bucky stares at the broken mug.

“Guess I owe you a new mug,” Sam calls. 

“Better be even nicer than the last one,” the Duke informs him shortly. Bucky can’t breathe, his hands gripping the edge of the sink now. “Get me one of them Black Cap’n America ones, grandkid’s’re always going on about how _flame_ his ass is.”

“Grandpa,” scolds Portia. He chuckles back at her, his rustiest noise.

“It’ll be flame,” Sam calls, and then, when Bucky continues not to move, he lifts the mug and the two pieces of the handle from the sink, putting them out of sight and letting the water run.

“Ah, hell, tell him it’s just a mug,” says the Duke, as Portia wheels him past, heading for the elevators. “No bones broken, kid, and I wouldn’t cry even if you did break ‘em.”

Sam nods, and then says, lowly, “You’re safe, Bucky. You’re safe, and Steve’s safe, everyone you love is safe. It’s 4:50 PM, and the weather is nice, it’s gotta be in the low 70s, little cloudy. Perfect weather for a walk.”

“Yeah,” gasps Bucky, finally. His whole side _burns_. It was just a mug. Duke’s not even cranky about it. Sam’ll buy a new one. “Yeah, a walk.”

“My man, will you let Steve know we decided on a walk, he can text me when he’s done?” Sam says to- to someone. 

“You got it,” the man says back, completely unconcerned with how Bucky is freaking the fuck out right now.

But then, Bucky’s not the only vet to suddenly freak the fuck out at a loud noise, or a sudden movement, an unexpected disappointment or minor stressor. Not in this building, where they all congregate in the summer because it has free air conditioning and in the winter because it has heat, and at any other point in the year because it has people who _understand_.

For the first while, they just walk, Sam keeping pace with Bucky, allowing Bucky to choose which way they turn, and how long they walk in that direction before they head in a different one.

Bucky sees flashes of other Brooklyns before his eyes- that computer repair place right there had been an ice cream shop, maybe. Kids down that alley had been playing jacks, one day, and Steve’d taken his first punch from Loud Frankie, who’d flat out cheated, the no good lyin’-. There’d been a dog awake, and barking at midnight, in that apartment, right there.

Just flashes, though. Not a whole life. Even here, in Brooklyn, where he should- he should have the whole story.

Sam doesn’t ask anything, and Bucky’s grateful. He takes out his phone once, and his fingers fly as he reassures Steve, or, or alerts SHIELD, Bucky doesn’t know and doesn’t care. Sam doesn’t ask anything. He just walks, beside Bucky.

“I-” begins Bucky, and then he stops. He stops everything, he stops walking, he stops thinking, he just- just _stops_.

Sam waits.

“You can’t touch me like that,” Bucky says, finally, face burning at how it _sounds_.

“Okay, I won’t,” promises Sam easily. “But you might want to work on that. Add it to your list.”

Bucky doesn’t have a list, he has a jumble of words and letters and lines on a page, and no matter which way you hold the page, it’s always the wrong side up. He snorts.

Sam cracks a smile at him, like he’s trying it on to see how it fits. “You’re gonna be okay,” he tells Bucky firmly.

“You can’t know that,” mutters Bucky, his hip and arm still burning where Sam had bumped into him.

Sam turns and starts walking. Bucky hesitates for a few steps, and then keeps up.

“I can,” says Sam, his voice confident. “And do you know why I can, James Buchanon Barnes?”

Bucky shrugs. 

“Because you’re already okay, you just don’t want to admit it,” Sam tells him.

Bucky stops again.

Sam circles back, head tilted. “Oh, not what you want to hear, huh?”

Bucky growls, “Don’t you therapy at me, I had bigger, better therapists than you inside my head, poking around.”

“Do I _sound_ like I’m trying to be professional?” laughs Sam. “Walking about seven miles through Brooklyn and calling you on your shit sound like therapy to you?”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Maybe. You’re smart.”

Sam laughs again. “Not that smart.”

There’s a pause then, and Sam tilts his head again. “So which way can I touch you, James Barnes?”

“W-what?” breathes Bucky, eyes flying up.

“You said, I couldn’t touch you that way,” says Sam, reasonable, with just a hint of teasing laughter in his eyes. “So, what way can I touch you?”

“I don’t-” Bucky can’t breathe now, can’t catch his breath. “None of them?” he guesses.

“That doesn’t sound right,” Sam says firmly. “Here, stand still, you’re getting jumpy on me.”

Bucky stares at him. “Jumpy,” he repeats slowly.

“We’re a couple blocks from my place, you know that? It’s a weird ass route, but we’ll go there, eat dinner. You can call Cap, he can come get you, walk you home, or whatever. You’re not far from mine.”

“No, I- I know. I can- not far,” agrees Bucky.

“Breathe, James,” says Sam slowly. “I ain’t gonna touch you.”

“Oh,” says Bucky, swaying back on his heels just a little, feeling the relaxation shiver though him. His hip and arm burn. “Yeah, okay. Dinner. I’m, uh-” he notices, suddenly, with a shock of embarrassment because he learned how to listen to his body in Wakanda. He should have noticed- “Really hungry.”

“Speed walking is a sport, did you know that?” asks Sam, turning to lead the way.

“It is not,” Bucky tells him.

“No shit, it really is.”

“No, it really isn’t,” Bucky states for the record.

~~~

Sam makes spaghetti, a quadruple batch, as much as Steve makes for the two of them. It smells good. He slices open a fancy loaf of bread and puts it in the oven with butter in between each slice, butter and some kind of spice that makes his whole apartment smell delicious.

“I got this place- did I ever tell you- when Steve decided he’d go to NYU. He was looking at places and, hell, I can do my work anywhere, these days, they call me in for the Falcon/Captain shit and send a carrier, and vets are everywhere,” Sam says, easy and comfortable in his home, plating up spaghetti and opening drawers to get forks, nodding for Bucky to sit down at the small kitchen table across from him. “I figured, I had one best friend in the whole world, that’s more than most people in New York get, huh? Better stick close.”

It’s- it’s a familiar thought. “Yeah,” croaks Bucky, because a conversation is two people talking, “that’s- that’s how I ended up in his guest bedroom.”

“I figured,” says Sam easily. “He probably likes to keep you close. As much as he’s all out of time and going through his stuff, too, he probably wants you close.”

“I’m not-” begins Bucky, and then forges ahead “-I’m not good for him, the way he’s- I think-”

“Oh, being his shadow’s good for _you_ , now?” laughs Sam, shaking his head in disbelief. “I see how much you hate those bookstores, James Barnes, you cannot sit at my kitchen table and lie to me.”

“I don’t hate-” begins Bucky, but then he has to stop, because, well- “I don’t _hate_ them,” he finishes, which is at least most of the truth.

“Well, you don’t _like_ them,” chuckles Sam. “You got that whole _we are men of action_ thing happening. You ever even bought a book in one of them?”

“No,” admits Bucky, his guts churning for some reason he can’t identify. “No, I haven’t.”

“James Barnes,” chides Sam again, his eyes twinkling. “You don’t like volunteering either, do you?”

Bucky can feel a blush creep up his neck. He _knows_ he’s not as good as Steve Rogers, as deep-down good as Steve Rogers has ever been. He _knows_ that. “I don’t- it’s not that I- I mean- _goddamit-”_ he shouts, abruptly, shoving back from the table.

Sam looks up at him, not shocked, his eyes serious. “You don’t _what_ , James Barnes?”

“Steve doesn’t want to be a soldier anymore,” Bucky tells him, in a voice that tries to be firm.

“So?” Sam asks him, his face open and curious. “We weren’t talking about Steve Rogers and what he’s going through.”

“But- he- I-” stutters Bucky, waving a hand.

“Yeah, two different people, James Barnes. Different initials, even, and only one of you shares a birthday with Duke,” Sam points out, twirling his fork and taking another bite. “Someone give you the impression you were supposed to be his shadow or something?”

Every history book ever written. Every history show ever produced, about the Second World War, every- every magazine or newspaper article, every- every- Bucky doesn’t remember his own history, not all of it, but the history shows _do_ , and so he knows, now, who he’s _supposed_ to be. Hard to miss it. They’d written _comic books_. Andy Warhol made a mint on Steve and Bucky’s faces, and so did Normal Rockwell, Steve’s got books full of ‘em all around the apartment. He’s _supposed_ to be Steve’s shadow, he knows that, message _received_.

“So you want to be a soldier still?” asks Sam, taking another bite, eyebrows up.

Bucky inhales quickly. He shakes his head, and then picks the fork back up, scoots his chair in. “Maybe, something like that,” he says quietly, in this quiet kitchen where it can’t hurt Steve and Steve’s hopes and dreams for _peace_. Where he can’t disappoint a whole world full of people, because Sam’s the only one here and Sam had asked the question and he didn’t look like he was invested in any kind of answer out of Bucky, yes or no.

“Mm. Well, I mean, Avengers are always recruiting,” offers Sam. “Recruiting _very specific people_ ,” he amends after another bite. “Like, pretty much no one,usually, except that for some _very specific people_ , we’re always recruiting,” he clarifies, smiling at Bucky.

“I’m all-” says Bucky, waving his hand again. 

“Fucked up? Yeah, so was Tony Stark, man was a real wreck. You know we got a guy turns into a gigantic green rage monster, tore Harlem the fuck up a few years back?” says Sam, unimpressed. “And an ex-felon with sticky fingers, little pissant stole my wings last mission, had to go out to California and get ‘em back. That bar’s already been set so high I don’t think you’ll be able to beat that chin-up record, James Barnes.”

Bucky snorts. “Nobody calls me that,” he informs Sam. That’s not quite true. People have used it his whole life to, to manipulate him, make him feel small, in trouble. To point out how powerless he is, how he shouldn’t have choices, because he makes the wrong ones. But that’s not how Sam is using it, here in his kitchen, twirling spaghetti on a fork. 

“ _I_ do,” Sam points out calmly. Bucky wonders if it's even possible to offend this new version of Captain America, and then almost snorts because, well, it was _real_ easy to offend the last one carrying the shield. “Who gave you the nickname?”

“Oh, uh, it’s from my middle name,” says Bucky, palms sweating suddenly.

“James, the whole world knows that,” says Sam patiently. “Who gave it to you?”

“I, uh, I don’t remember,” Bucky says, finally, his throat closing because that’s _painfully_ true. It was maybe his best friend in the whole world or maybe his mother, or a sister, or his dad, and _he can’t remember who_.

“Yeah, no one can remember why my whole family calls my sister Mickey-do. Her name’s Michelle,” Sam tells him. “But there it is. Mickey-do. She can go anywhere in the world, she’s got a PhD, can you believe that? But she’s still Mickey-do around any of our houses. Hates it.”

“I don’t- I don’t mind it,” Bucky tells him. It had broken him free, when he needed a symbol, a symbol that he was a person, not a thing. Granted that he spends most of his time as a person being an asshole kind of person, but it’s better than being nothing but an _asset_.

“Well, that’s good,” says Sam. “So now we got something you don’t mind, and something you maybe want to be. That’s pretty good, James Barnes.”  
  
“You said you weren’t doing therapy,” Bucky says, suspicious.

Sam sighs. “I’m not. This is- this is what you do, when you’re interested in someone, Bucky. You talk to ‘em. Ask ‘em stuff. Tell ‘em stuff.”

“What- what do you- what-” sputters Bucky, face flushing.

“Just interested, Bucky,” Sam says slowly. “Not putting anything on you. You interested back? Sure seems like you are.”

“I don’t- maybe?” asks Bucky, head whirling a little. His hip and arm burn again.

“Maybe works for me,” chuckles Sam. “Better than _hell no, faggot_ , which Steve told me to prepare myself for.”

“What?” asks Bucky plaintively. “That’s- Steve knew about me.” He’s pretty sure of that. He’s pretty sure Steve knew. Didn’t he? Wasn’t that- wasn’t that why Steve was always getting into fights? One of the reasons? His head hammers and his heart pounds, because Steve knew about him, he’s pretty sure, but _none of the history books did_.

“He said he had known long before he had to share a tent with you, but you’re all messed up, James Barnes, he didn’t know if _you_ remembered that about you,” Sam says, lifting an eyebrow and biting into a slice of the delicious smelling bread. “So that’s good. That’s another good thing, that _maybe_.”

“I’m so fucked up,” mutters Bucky into a long pause.

“Happen to like challenges,” Sam tells him. “Not in it for a boring life, don’t know if you noticed. Here’s a good one for us to tackle next- where _can_ I touch you, James Barnes?”

“I- um-” says Bucky miserably.

“Can you walk me through it? Is it the torture?” asks Sam, and whoo, yeah, he’s not being professional, that’s- that’s not a professional question. Bucky’s a little scandalized because that’s- _no one_ is supposed to just ask straight out _is it the torture_.

“You’re not supposed to ask about the torture,” he blurts out, and then chuckles, because, well, it is strangely kinda funny.

“Oops?” says Sam. “So, you don’t like to be touched, but I’ve seen people touch you, Bucky, and you only get jumpy for some people, for some touches. Hell, in the middle of a fight, you do plenty of _touching_ , yourself.”

How to explain, where to even _start_ -

“I don’t- I lived alone, in Wakanda, for- for months,” he says, looking at his spaghetti, watching the plate clear as he spaces his words around the bites he shoves into his mouth. “After, uh, Romania, after- well. Before the Snap.”

“Yeah, I remember Steve saying that. You’ve talked about it, about Wakanda. I’ve heard some of your stories,” Sam encourages him.

“Yeah, but, like, _alone_ , Sam,” Bucky tells him urgently. “I- and I was on the run, and- and before that, for, uh, decades, I wasn’t- I didn’t- _no one touched me_ -” _Untouchable_ , in fact, in Russian, неприкасаемый, that’d been his designation, when he met that girl, who grew up, and he shot her, shot her to get to his target, an engineer, and he met her again, and again, at Steve’s side. Black Widow, the little girl assassin, and the woman who tricked and trapped him. “And, uh, so, T’Challa’s physician, he said, uh- they, they call it, when you need- when you want- it’s a craving, they call it-”

“Skin hunger,” breathes Sam.

Bucky breathes, too, lowly and slowly, his heart pounding. “Yeah, I, uh-”

“It’s not being _afraid_ of being touched,” Sam drawls slowly. “It’s wanting it so bad it _hurts_.”

Bucky’s face flames. “N-not, not all the time, not- not from everybody.” His hip and arm mock him with little licks of flame and pressure.

“Oh, God, and here Steve’s building up this story, James Barnes,” hoots Sam, “and telling me how you’re _traumatized_.”

“I am,” protests Bucky, but then his lips twitch. Sam snorts at him, shaking his head.

“Well, James Barnes,” crows Sam, smile stretching his lips as he pushes back his chair. “Come sit on my couch.”

Bucky’s still a little hungry, but there’s something in Sam’s eyes that’s more than a little hypnotic. 

“So, did T’Challa’s physician recommend-” begins Sam.

“-yeah. And it worked, for awhile, regular massages, but- but-”

“That’s why it’s getting worse,” laughs Sam. “That’s why you’re getting jumpy. Dropping coffee mugs and wincing when Steve pats you on the back. When was the last time-”

Bucky shuffles. “I don’t- Steve just makes these _plans_. For our day.”  
  
“And you think you’d upset him by having different ones? Making an appointment to go get some _touch_ ,” says Sam incredulously.

“No! No, he’d- I just- it’s easier,” mutters Bucky. 

“Yeah, well, I told you, I like _challenges_ , not easy mode,” says Sam. “And I think, I think you do, too, James Barnes.”

Bucky scowls. “Maybe.”

“Well, I hate to offer a one-night stand, but Bucky, I think, I might have to offer you a one-night stand, tonight, and we can try for something more emotional tomorrow,” laughs Sam. Bucky’s head is so dizzy, he’s lightheaded with blushing and with the sudden and shocking realization that he’s _completely turned on_. “You’re like a ticking time bomb, and I’m too patriotic to let you just wander around all these historical sites, ticking down. Didn’t you ever think to ask him for a _cuddle_?” he says fondly, into the silence. 

“Captain America doesn’t _cuddle_ ,” protests Bucky, scandalized.

“Well, no, but that’s because he’s ace, hon,” explains Sam. “The old model wouldn’t think of it because he doesn’t think that way, he’s not wired for it. The new one, however, _loves_ cuddling.”

“He’s not ace,” says Bucky, because, yeah, the internet exists, he’s done some catching up, and, yes, learning that there are sexualities that actually _fit him_ has been a revelation and then a fascination, briefly, sitting on his laptop outside whatever classroom Steve was frantically taking notes inside. “He had that thing, for Peggy.”

“Not aromantic,” agrees Sam. “Do you always just duck behind Steve, whenever you feel like you need cover? I offered you a one-night stand, James Barnes.”

Bucky can’t actually breathe in enough air to gasp out _yes_ or, or maybe _no_.

Sam makes a little throaty humming noise and then tilts his head. “Is that a maybe?”

Bucky nods helplessly.

“I’ll take it,” says Sam. “I’m- I’ll take it.”

Bucky snorts and says, “You really got a thing for challenge mode.”

“Adrenaline junkie,” chuckles Sam. He meets Bucky’s eyes and says slowly, “Not ace, James Barnes.”

“I-” Bucky clears his throat. “Not ace, either, Sam Wilson.”

“I do anything that’s too much, you _tell_ me,” Sam says seriously. “I know- I know, with skin hunger, how-”

“Yeah,” Bucky promises. “I- I like, I don’t- you call me James. No one- not the way you do it.”

“Ah,” breathes Sam, shifting just a little closer, one hand rising up, stroking fire down Bucky’s cheek, fire and comfort, the soft sweetness making him thirst and ache and press into the touch, face flaming. “Ahh,” breathes Sam. “I’m gonna like this, and miss this, when we get you all touched up and sated.”

“Got decades, um,” mutters Bucky, blowing out a breath and rolling his eyes, trying hard not to be the cranky _asshole_ that seems to be the majority of his personality, fit only for old Staff Sergeants like Duke, who are used to dealing with assholes in the ranks under them. “Got decades, saved up,” he offers Sam, shrugging, pressing into Sam’s hand, feeling it touch his ear and play there, fingertip leaving tingles and sending out shivers.

“Good to hear,” says Sam, sliding his fingers down the column of Bucky’s throat and neck. Bucky struggles to breathe, and Sam smiles at that, too. “Because I suddenly got decades of stuff I gotta do, on my to-do list.”

“What a surprise,” gasps Bucky shifting closer, pressing against that hand as it trails comfort and need down, across, along his living arm. “Me too.”

~~~

Nine months later, Duke coughs and then growls, “Put it on, you damn horse’s asses.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and hands one to Sam. “It won’t-” splutters Sam, “Where the heck do you think I can tuck this? It’s _Kevlar_ , Duke.” He tries to pinch up enough fabric off of the chestplate for the pin and rolls his eyes. “I can’t- it’s- James, help!”

Bucky’s laughing, but he reaches up and fingers the bare inch of undershirt that lays against Sam’s neck, pinching out a fold and sliding the pin through easily, the poppy resting brightly on the pale blue fabric.

“There,” says Duke, sitting back, coughing again.

Bucky doesn’t think Duke has too many more days left, to call them names and order them around. It makes him sad, deep in his gut, and he leans into Sam briefly. Sam wraps an arm around him, casually, and mutters, “Where the hell is his Fine Artship? Photo op in fifteen, and I swear to God if he didn’t pack the uniform, I’ll kill him.”

“I got his spare one,” Bucky tells him, rubbing his hip into Sam’s side contentedly. 

Sam tilts his head to smile down at Bucky. “Hey, yours looks good, for something that Stark didn’t have his hands on. Man always did have a nice touch, an eye for making things look good.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees in a grunt. “It’s okay.” He squints at his phone, where the last text of “ETA 5” has now reached “8 minutes ago” status.

“Not real uniforms, buncha costumes,” bitches Duke at the table in front of them. It’s a nice change from him bitching about Sam always _touching_ Bucky, like he don’t got self-control, like he needs to be taught it ain’t always necessary to mark his place in the book he’s reading with his _fingers_. It’s a nice change, but Bucky knows it won’t last. Duke loves bitching about them, loves being the 83 year old who puts the bigoted 65 year olds to shame when they eye Sam and Bucky up uncomfortably. Loves being loud about how it’s great they’re fucking, glad Bucky finally gave in and woke up, but could they do it when he’s not sitting right there, trying to twist poppies to raise awareness of the _cause._

“Grandpa,” chides Portia. “I’m sure they’re, uh, designed to be more _functional_.” She eyes up Sam’s flashier colors with misgivings that Bucky agrees with. He much prefers his own black and gray tactical suit. Feels _professional_. Maybe that’s the asset in him, though, the part that’s best at being a shadow and a rumor. 

“I’m here!” Steve’s voice floats up the stairs, and Bucky can feel Sam draw a deeper breath against his entire side, relax a little against Bucky. “I’m here,” Steve announces again, jogging over to Bucky for his hug, and leaning in to whisper, “You got the suit, right?”

Bucky nods towards the small bathroom and Steve claps him on the back, saying, “Be right out. Be _right_ out, gimme five.”

“Three,” demands Duke. 

Bucky rolls his eyes and says, “It’ll take him three minutes just to peel outta them skinny jeans.”

“Hush, he’s embracing his inner hipster and it’s adorable,” says Sam, smacking Bucky on the hip.

“I can hear you,” calls Steve from behind the bathroom door.

“We know,” shout Bucky and Sam as one.

Duke glares at them, and Sam gives him his unimpressed eyebrow. Bucky smiles back sunnily, knowing there are some times when a smile can cut worse than a knife. 

Sam slides his hand from Bucky’s hip to Bucky’s butt and whispers, “You want to invite him over for a post-photo-op cuddle tonight?”

“Nah,” says Bucky. “He hogs the covers. Besides, the new Captain America’s pretty much perfect, and I gotta say? It’s a nice change.”

“Hey!” yelps Steve from the other room. “I can _hear_ you!”

“We know,” they shout.

“2 minutes,” growls the Duke, glaring at Bucky. “I don’t care what you gotta do to skin outta ‘em."

Portia blows out an anxious breath, looking at all of them. “Y’all _behave_ ,” she chides, like it’s her press conference.

“Tryin’, ma’am,” says Bucky, but his lips twitch and he knows she catches it when she shakes her head.

Steve hops out, zipping up one boot and then the next, the cowl half-way down his back, still. He smiles at them and says breathlessly, “See? Plenty of time.”

Duke says, “Well, Portia, care to escort me down?”

Sam gives Bucky one last squeeze and says, “I think all the heroes better make an entrance together, don’t you, sir?”

Duke looks up at him, hands shaking, and swallows, saying, “Yeah, you can ride my coat-tails to glory, _Captain_.”

Bucky smiles tightly, and reaches for the handles to Duke’s chair. 

The elevator ride is filled with the sound of Duke coughing. The warm May air might help, thinks Bucky. Sometimes it’d make Steve worse, but sometimes it was better, too, depending.

They wheel out the side entrance and the volunteers part ways, the line stretching clear down the street as far as Bucky can see. Signs everywhere proclaim, “We Shall Keep the Faith” and “In Memoriam” and “Poppy Day: May 22nd Stand For the Fallen.” Sam runs a soothing hand down Bucky’s back, warns, “Steady, James.”

Bucky nods. Today ain’t about him, anyway.

The first person to get him is some dumb kid, who drops a twenty in the jar and says, “Thank you for your service,” his eyes shining. His mama smiles indulgently.

“Yeah, you bet,” grunts Bucky, because he’s embracing his inner asshole. Beside him, handing out his own first poppy, Sam takes a single step closer. Bucky grins and says, “Remember the fallen.”

“I will,” the boy breathes. His mom puts her hand out and Bucky drops a poppy into it, and then they’re gone.

Bucky loses track of how many times he says _remember the fallen_ , dropping poppies into people’s hands. He loses track, too, of how many green foam platforms they bring him, covered in fake fields of poppies. He knows someone, somewhere, is tracking the twenty dollar bills and the five dollar bills and the shiny new quarters people are dropping, and that’s the reason for standing here, Sam on his left and Duke on his right, cameras flashing and volunteers bustling around them. 

“Came for my poppy,” says a familiar voice, and Bucky looks up into Clint’s solemn face. “Heard you had a good cause, needed supporting.”

“Thought you were in Tulsa,” Bucky says lowly.

“I was,” agrees Clint. “Now I’m here.” He drops twenty into the jar and holds out his hand. He squints at Sam and says, “Captain.”

“Hawk,” says Sam easily. “We got a problem?” His eyes scan the skies quickly, check in on Duke, before eyeing up the crowd.

“Nah, just stopping by, wanted to say thanks for your service,” says Clint, taking the poppy Bucky drops into his hand and poking the pin through his t-shirt. 

“You’re welcome, was an honor, now get goin’,” grumps Duke. “Holding up the line.”

“See you for practice?” asks Clint, stepping back.

“Yeah,” says Bucky, and Sam bumps into his shoulder, the contact thrilling enough that Bucky grins.

“Hey,” Bucky shouts after dropping two more poppies into unfamiliar hands, shouting across the field of poppies in front of him. “Hey, Clint, I forgot!”

Cameras point at him, at Clint, as Clint turns around and shouts, “What?”

“Remember the fallen, and keep the faith,” Bucky shouts at him, as Sam snorts and Steve sighs.

“Yeah, we all stand up,” Clint tells him, pitching his voice to carry. “That’s what being an Avenger _is_ , you idiot.”

Sam sighs and says, “Duke, I think you’re right. Hawk’s my least favorite Avenger.”

“At least he ain’t calling himself _Captain_ ,” growls Duke. “Get back to work. Said we’d hand out enough of these to put a wreath on every one of my buddies’ stones.”

Steve’s clear, earnest voice intones, “It was an honor, remember the fallen” as Sam snorts.

“Think we got enough for that, what, you need one, maybe two?” mutters Bucky. 

Duke coughs and hands over a poppy, gasping, “Remember the fallen,” and then growls, “Snot-nosed little punk.”

Bucky grins and replies to the person in front of him, “It was an honor. Keep faith with the fallen.”

They grab Steve, after a few minutes, because Duke’s already clearly flagging. They shove a microphone in his face for the reading, and Bucky’s grateful just to duck behind the monolith of Steve Fucking Rogers once again, and hand out poppies in silence as Steve’s choked voice reads the lines that plaster the walls of the rooms upstairs, 

_In Flanders fields the poppies blow_

_Between the crosses, row on row,_

_That mark our place; and in the sky_

_The larks, still bravely singing, fly_

_Scarce heard amid the guns below._

_We are the Dead. Short days ago_

_We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,_

_Loved and were loved, and now we lie,_

_In Flanders fields._

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:_

_To you from failing hands we throw_

_The torch; be yours to hold it high._

_If ye break faith with us who die_

_We shall not sleep, though poppies grow_

_In Flanders fields._

In Brooklyn, James Barnes’ boyfriend rubs his back with a heavy hand, passing out poppies with his other hand, poppies he plucks with careful fingers from the fields and fields of them, pressed down into the green foam and brought forward from box after box by volunteers who replace them just as soon as they run out. In Brooklyn, James Barnes smiles a watery smile and tells people it was an honor, promises to hold the torch and carry it, loves, and is loved, and hands out poppies, one by one, remembering his fallen, and for once, not counting himself among them.

**Author's Note:**

> Tedrakitty, I hope you enjoyed it. Sorry it was light on sexy, hopefully the sweetness made up for it.


End file.
